


one jump ahead

by fruti2flutie



Series: wish upon a shining diamond [1]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Disney, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 04:54:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7154396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruti2flutie/pseuds/fruti2flutie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, though, is that he’s still the prince. He can still feel the turquoise gemstones, inherited from his late father, weighing down his ears. The skin of his hands is still soft from a life of luxury and pampering. His family name is still Xu, royal blood coursing through his veins as if he’s lived to become king — which is a notion he’d rather not think of too often.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one jump ahead

**Author's Note:**

> i dont even have anything to say, im a sinner who cries over this ship rip me
> 
> (*aladdin)

Minghao shouldn’t be here, out in the open, in this crowded bazaar. He really shouldn’t, but he is — and, boy, is it _exhilarating_.

Despite being the prince of this land, he’s never taken a step outside the palace, let alone interacted with the commonfolk. When his mother had attempted to set him up with yet another princess of a neighboring country, marking the sixth try, he’d had enough. He needed a break. He needed an _escape_. Leaving his worrisome pet tiger behind in the broad daylight, Minghao had cloaked himself in plain robes and hopped over the palace walls. (All those martial arts lessons, ironically, had been very useful.)

So here he is now, walking through the streets and experiencing the outside world for the first time. The air is hot, humid. His feet are kicking up dirt with every step. The civilians see him and move on, like he’s another drop in the bucket.

The thing is, though, is that he’s still the prince. He can still feel the turquoise gemstones, inherited from his late father, weighing down his ears. The skin of his hands is still soft from a life of luxury and pampering. His family name is still Xu, royal blood coursing through his veins as if he’s lived to become king — which is a notion he’d rather not think of too often.

Yet Minghao is constantly intrigued at the various stalls, the people who pass by him like he’s just a normal citizen, the sense of community he’s never experienced before. One stall is selling all kinds of fruits, baskets filled to the brim with pears, oranges, apples. There are two young children staring longingly at them. Clothes tattered, the girl pulls at her dress as the boy chews on his lips.

Without a second thought Minghao takes an apple from a basket, bends at his knees, and hands it to the girl. “Here you go,” he says, smiling. “You must be hungry!”

Before she can take it Minghao’s arm is harshly yanked and he’s lifted into the air, staring face to face with the fruit vendor — shadowy beard, bloodshot eyes, unforgiving snarl. Minghao gulps.

“Are ya trying to _steal_ from _me_!?” the vendor snaps, the unhinged volume blaring in Minghao’s ears like shrill trumpets.

“N-No, I wasn’t trying to!” insists Minghao, but the vendor isn’t having it. If anything, he’s more fed up and pulls his fist back to ready for a punch. As Minghao braces himself for the hit, he’s surprised to find his feet landing back on the ground and someone standing in front of him, holding out an arm to stop the vendor from swinging.

“You’ll have to forgive my brother, sir,” the stranger proclaims, and his voice is strangely captivating — smooth and confident, with a low-toned yet boyish allure. “He’s often wandering away from me, you must understand. He can’t see very well, but he tries to— to touch things to feel what they are for me.” He turns and, _oh_ , he is very attractive. Straight teeth, auburn hair, and eyes that glimmer with promise. (There’s no shirt underneath his worn violet vest, which makes Minghao’s cheeks flush.)

The stranger pats Minghao’s back and urges, “Isn’t that right?”

Minghao gets the hint, and he waves his arms around and says airily, “Oh, brother, is that truly you?” He touches the stranger’s face, to act _blind_ , and it’s obvious to them that they’re both struggling not to burst out laughing. “This _feels_ like you...”

The vendor looks unimpressed, but the stranger is relentless. Taking Minghao’s hand, the stranger bows to the vendor and begins leading them away. “Yes, yes, brother. I am me. Now we must be on our way! Mother will worry _immensely_ after hearing how the pissy vendor nearly took off your head.”

Minghao has to chuckle, then, and the stranger tugs him along before the vendor can chase them down in fury.

When they stop running, chests heaving and sweat matting their hair to their foreheads, Minghao leans his back against the wall to catch his breath. The stranger does the same. They’re in a dark alley, yet this stranger’s presence shines as bright as a gem.

“Thank you,” Minghao says, breathless, “for rescuing me back there.”

The stranger grins, and even in his dirtied and roughened state he still looks dashingly handsome. “I have an affinity for saving damsels in distress,” he declares. “You’re no damsel, but your beauty makes you close. I’ve lived around here my whole life, but I’ve never seen someone as lovely as you.”

Needless to say Minghao blushes apple-red, and surprisingly enough the stranger looks embarrassed at his own words, too. He drops Minghao’s hand, and it is then Minghao realizes how young the stranger appears — he can’t be a year older than Minghao.

The stranger clears his throat, pursing his lips slightly. On a set of garbage cans he places his foot on top of the lid and hoists himself up to the closest roof. “Follow me,” he commands, words as guiding as his gaze, so Minghao does.

One rooftop after another, following the stranger has Minghao’s curiosity increase. Who is he? Where’d he come from? What is he doing, helping Minghao? What does he have to gain? When they had been running away from the vendor he’d overheard someone yell “street rat,” but Minghao doesn’t see it. How can someone so pure in intentions be labelled as such?

“Are you sure this is safe?” he asks, instead, and the stranger turns to him, the sun radiating behind his smile.

“Do you trust me?”

Minghao pauses. “No, not particularly,” he says, but there is no wariness in his tone. “You haven’t even told me your name.”

“Nor did you,” the stranger counters. He sits at the edge of the crumbling rooftop, and Minghao joins him.

They overlook the lively city, where there is not a moment of quiet. Vendors shout their prices, advertise their wares. Travelers are undoubtedly a hair’s width away from being swindled. Night is approaching, but life is still as awake as ever. The palace is in full view, as well, and Minghao wonders if his mother has discovered his absence yet. She’d scream to the next nation over, he’s sure, and the thought amuses him.

“Hansol.” The stranger’s voice echoes in the evening air, the tinge of mystery making Minghao shudder. “I’m Hansol. And you are?”

Minghao shouldn’t tell him. He should just get up and leave, return to the palace where he rightfully belongs. A prince shouldn’t associate himself with those lower than him, his advisors would always say, but at this moment Hansol looks more like a prince than Minghao ever has imagined himself to be. The way he’s gazing at Minghao, giving him all the time in the world, is something that makes him feel more human than anyone’s ever made him out to be. He wonders if Hansol can feel it, also.

“Minghao,” he answers, swallowing down years of cowardice. Hansol’s smile is bright. And, with an ounce of bravery, he adds, “Xu Minghao.”

Hansol’s eyes go wide. “Wait,” he says, blinking rapidly, “did you say—”

“Do you trust me?” Minghao asks, and he knows that the desperation in his words is pitiful. Desperation that he hadn’t known he needed to show. “Please, Hansol.”

Slowly and gently taking Minghao’s hand, Hansol takes a deep breath. “I trust you,” he declares. Minghao’s shoulders sag in relief. “But I don’t know if I can trust myself.”

Minghao frowns. “Why?”

Hansol presses his lips to the back of Minghao’s hand, letting the surge of warmth fill Minghao’s heart and make his head spin. When he pulls away, the air around them feels like it’s been bathed in rose petals.

Hansol grins sheepishly. “I’m already a felon, and this must be a crime somewhere.”

“No,” Minghao says, shaking his head. “Not here.” And he leans close to kiss Hansol’s cheek, wondering if this can be his happy ending.

 

 

 

  
  
Hansol hopes he won’t be executed for becoming infatuated with the prince, but he realizes belatedly that he wouldn’t want to be executed before having Minghao fall in love with him, too.


End file.
